“I seemed, somehow, to know you from the first,” she said gladly, as they continued their walk. “There was something about your personality which gave me the impression of having met you before. I suppose I never have met you before; but your ways of looking and speaking are very like your poor father’s, and of course I knew him well.”
The adjective arrested his attention.
“You do not mean to say that my father is—” He broke off shortly. “Why did you say ‘poor’?”
“Because he is dead.” Then realising her abruptness, she was filled with compunction. “Oh, I am so sorry,” she added respectfully. “I ought not to have told you like that. I made sure that you knew; it was in all the papers. He died over three years ago.”
The tourist’s face grew grave, and unconsciously hardened.
“I have lived practically away from civilisation for some time, where no news could reach me,” he rejoined, “but I do not suppose I should have been sent for, even had it been possible. Sir Julian treated me very unjustly, Raie, and I find it hard to forget. Still, he was my father, and loved me when I was a child. I am sorry he has died believing me guilty.”
Raie was silent for a few moments, and left him to his own reflections; but before they rejoined their party, she spoke again.
“Why did you come to Haifa without making yourself known to your people, Ferdinand?” she asked, eager for information.
“Frank, dear, not Ferdinand—for the present,” he corrected, starting slightly at the name. “My coming to Haifa was a mere chance, and it was not until I arrived here that I learnt that my brother Lionel was Governor. I suppose Burstall Abbey has been sold? Who lives there now?”
“It belongs to Earl Torrens, Lionel’s father-in-law; but it is standing empty for the present. Do you remember the nurse—Anne—from Thorpe Burstall? She came with us to Palestine, and is with us now.”